He's Alive
by Dreigiau
Summary: Shortly before heading off to see his parents for the week, four months after the fall, Greg pays his first visit to Sherlock's grave since the funeral. There he finds Mycroft, standing alone in the rain and laughing to himself. The only real piece of explanation he managed to get that evening does nothing but confuse him further, "He's alive".
1. Chapter 1

Written for the Summer Mystrade Exchange. This is a gift for azriona, who prompted me with: Mark Gatiss's comment at ComicCon that we see Mycroft laughing at Sherlock's grave? Yeah, run with that.

New chapters are currently tentatively scheduled for every other Friday.

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"Lestrade," Greg answered his mobile brusquely, using his shoulder to keep it pressed to his ear as he reached for a pen. He had been fielding calls from a Wiltshire based force all morning, co-ordinating on a trio of killings with nearly identical MOs. The links were too clear to be ignored, but as the case had not originally been one of Greg's, he had spent the day playing catch up with the case file.

"Gregory, are you quite alright? You sound stressed." Greg dropped the pen onto his desk, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

"Busy day," he replied. "Trying to co-ordinate on what appears to be a rather mobile killer. How're you?"

"Exhausted," Mycroft admitted. "I should be home tonight, though not until late."

"Worth staying up late, or get some sleep late?" Greg asked. "I'd like to see you before I head off tomorrow. You've been in the office all week." It was not quite an accusation – Greg had known from early on in their relationship that work could call Mycroft away at any moment, sometimes for as long as three weeks at a time. He worried, however, when the absences stretched to more than a few days. Mycroft would run himself into the ground with little regard for his health or sanity, and could take days to recover fully once he was home.

"I will wake you when I return," Mycroft replied. "I too would like to see you before you leave to visit your parents."

"See you tonight, then," Greg said, sitting forward in his chair as he spoke.

"Certainly." A pause stretched out on the line, neither man willing to hang up and return to work. "Until this evening then." Mycroft broke the silence after a few long moments.

"Yeah, bye." The line went dead and Greg ruffled a hand through his hair before turning back to the case file on his desk.

Greg left the Yard on time that evening, having dropped what existed of the case off with Sally, leaving it to her to continue with. He had had the following week booked off for months, and there was no way that he was going to let the case put off the visit which he was planning to make to his parents, now retired in the Welsh countryside.

With nothing but an empty flat to return home to, Greg made the decision to take a short detour on his way home. He pulled into a small church car park, turned off his car and pulled his coat off of the back seat. The rain, which had been nothing more than a light drizzle when he left work, was now a full downpour. But he had arrived at the church, and he was not going to leave without making his visit.

He tugged the hood of the coat up over his head as he stepped out of the car, locking it behind him before making his way towards the building. He skirted around it, keeping his head down against the driving rain as he headed out into the graveyard. He had not visited Sherlock's grave since the funeral, nearly four months prior. He had not been able to face the reminder that he had failed the younger man, that his doubts, however small, had been a factor in Sherlock's death.

Greg knew the position of the grave by heart. Not because he had visited, but because Mycroft often muttered in his sleep and had been visiting every other week since the funeral. Fourteen rows down and six across.

Greg paused at the end of the row, tugging his coat more tightly around himself before turning down it. Sherlock's grave stood out amongst the others, black and slick in the rain while the others were grey, dulled in the downpour. What stood out more, however, was the figure standing before the grave.

The figure was a very familiar one, everything from the plastered down, auburn hair to the smart suit and the unopened umbrella hanging from the wrist. Despite his regular visits, Mycroft was the last person that Greg would have expected to see at the grave, given their phone call earlier in the day. He took a few steps closer to the other man, pausing when a strange sound reached him through the patter of rain.

Mycroft was laughing. Not the soft chuckle that Greg was used to, but great, whoops of amusement. His body was shaking with it, almost convulsing, and Greg forced himself to cross the last few feet of grass and rest a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Mycroft?" The politician started, turning towards Greg with a frown which quickly morphed into a smile as he peered under the hood.

"He's alive, Gregory." Greg had to take a step back to balance himself as Mycroft practically leapt forward into a hug, letting the policeman take his weight for a moment. They stood together until Greg felt Mycroft begin to laugh again against his neck.

"You're soaked," Greg told him, pulling back and tugging Mycroft's umbrella off of his arm. "And frozen. How did you get here?"

"I had my driver drop me off," Mycroft replied, letting the umbrella go without an argument, which only added to Greg's worry. "I had to check for myself."

"I've got my car," Greg told him, opening the umbrella and holding it over Mycroft's head. He was already soaked through, but at least it would not get any worse. "You can tell me all about it when we get home, yeah?" Mycroft nodded, following Greg obediently back towards the car.

Greg drove them both home carefully, stealing glances at Mycroft as often as was safe and feeling a deep knot of worry settling in his stomach at the sight of the grin on the other man's face. He parked up outside their block of flats and ushered Mycroft up the stairs. Once they were inside he pushed the politician towards the bathroom, telling him to get himself warmed up and changed into pyjamas.

While Mycroft was in the shower Greg set the kettle boiling. He was waiting for it to finish when Mycroft emerged from the bathroom, wrapped up in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

"Tea?" Greg offered, surprised when Mycroft shook his head in reply. "Want to talk about it?"

"In the morning, before you leave," Mycroft replied. "I'm going to bed."

"I'll be through in a minute."

Once Mycroft was through the door to the bedroom, Greg pulled his mobile from his pocket, scrolling through his contacts. He pressed the phone to his ear with a sigh, leaning against the counter and flicking the kettle off as he listened to it ring.

"Is something wrong with Mycroft?" Anthea's reply as she answered her phone was exactly what Greg had expected, and it soothed his nerves a little.

"I found him at Sherlock's grave, laughing," Greg replied quietly. He crossed the room and leant in the bedroom doorway, his eyes on Mycroft's back and the steady rise and fall of his side. "He's exhausted, and said something about Sherlock being alive. Can you clear his schedule for the week? He needs the rest."

"I'll do my best. He's already clear until Wednesday. Enjoy your week with your parents, I'll keep you updated."

"Thank you, Anthea. Night." The line went dead without Anthea replying, and Greg slipped his mobile back into his pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg did not sleep at all well. Every time Mycroft shifted or muttered the policeman jolted awake, watching with concern until the other man settled down again. As sunshine crept through the crack in the curtains Greg gave up on trying to sleep. Instead he rolled onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head, under the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

Something was wrong. Something was wrong with Mycroft and Greg would have to be blind not to see it. The thought of leaving him alone for a week caused a knot of worry to settle in the DI's stomach. While he did not want to miss the visit to his parents, he was fairly sure that there was not another choice. Anthea was brilliant at keeping him informed, but it was not her job to look after Mycroft outside of work. John was entirely out of the question; the doctor was still not coping well, and had make his dislike of Mycroft abundantly clear.

Rolling onto his front, Greg looked down at Mycroft, watching the twitch of his eyelids as he slept. His face was relaxed in sleep, and Greg forced himself to run over what it was that Mycroft had said the previous day. _He's alive. _Sherlock was surely the only person that Mycroft could have been referring to. He did not have to be a Holmes to work out that the context led to no other conclusion.

For a few long minutes, Greg allowed himself to consider the possibility. Even Sherlock had admitted, though never directly, that Mycroft had outsmarted him at times. Was it possible that Sherlock's death had been faked? Could Mycroft possibly have worked it out only the previous day? Greg shook his head, rejecting the thought. Sherlock had committed suicide. While they had never managed to work out why (Greg knew that it had not stemmed from the official story of the detective being a fake) and it was still a painful fact of life, he was dead and buried.

The bedside clock ticked past half past eight, and Greg carefully levered himself onto his elbows, intending to slip silently out of the bedroom. Mycroft snuffled and rolled over, his eyes opening. Greg stilled, smiling softly when Mycroft reached out for him, shifting closer.

"Morning you," Greg whispered, not wanting to break the quiet which had settled over the bedroom.

"Morning," Mycroft replied. Greg dropped back onto the mattress, pulling the other man towards himself.

"How're you feeling?" Greg asked, letting Mycroft settle against his side.

"Cold. I believe I may have caught a chill yesterday. Shouldn't you be preparing to leave?" Mycroft's voice was thick in a way which told Greg he had indeed caught a cold.

"I'm not surprised, you got soaked." Greg glanced down at Mycroft. The politician's hair was fluffed from sleep, his gaze only half alert as he woke up. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow and Greg lifted a hand to check his temperature. "You've got a fever, and you're off work until Wednesday. I'm not going."

"Of course you are," Mycroft huffed. "I don't need you to stay and babysit me, Gregory. A slight temperature is hardly reason for you to call off your trip."

"It's a bit more than a slight temperature, and it's not just that which worries me," Greg told him, shifting so that they were lying nose to nose. "I'm going to go and call my parents. I'll bring back tea, and we're going to talk about yesterday." He ignored Mycroft's muttered complaint as he slipped out of the bed and left the room.

In the kitchen Greg filled and flicked on the kettle before reaching for the phone. He tapped in the number for his parents before pressing the phone to his ear, turning to lean back against the kitchen counter as the ring tone sounded.

"Hello?" The kettle began to bubble as the call was answered, and Greg reached for mugs and the teapot.

"Morning Mum," he replied, measuring tea leaves into the pot. "How're you and Dad?"

"Greg, darling. We're just fine, thank you. Looking forward to seeing you this afternoon. What sort of time do you think you'll be with us?" Greg worried his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, reaching for the kettle when it finished heating and pouring a stream of water into the teapot.

"Actually, Mum, that's what I'm calling about," he started, pausing when his Mother sighed on her end of the phone.

"Has something come up at work, dear?" she asked.

"No Mum, not work. I've had this week booked off for ages. It's Mycroft. He had some sort of, I dunno, break down or something yesterday. And this morning he's come up in a fever. I'm worried about him, Mum. And I'm sorry, I really am, I don't want to miss seeing you but-"

"Greg, sweetie, you're wittering," she cut over him, and he could easily imagine the fond shake of his head which would accompany the words. "It's a shame we won't see you. But you should stay home if you want to keep an eye on him."

"I'll try and get over to you later in the week. Give Dad my love, yeah?" Greg asked, sliding a draw open and digging through it for a tea strainer. It was always obvious when he had been the one to put the washing up away, rather than Mycroft, he could never find anything.

"Of course. You go and look after that boyfriend of yours, and call us if you're going to be able to make it. Love you."

"Love you too, Mum," Greg replied, waiting for the line to be cut off at her end before placing the phone back into its base.

Once he had found the tea strainer and made up the tea, Greg carried the two mugs through to the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, taking a moment to appreciate the calm scene before him. Mycroft had drifted off to sleep again, curled up under the duvet. Greg quietly deposited the two mugs on their respective bedside tables before settling back on his side of the bed. Reaching across, he gently shook Mycroft awake again.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft moved closer to Greg, pressing his face into the police man's side and mumbling sleepily into the skin. Greg smiled, slipping his fingers through Mycroft's hair for a moment before pushing at his shoulder. The politician rolled onto his back, opening his eyes before moving to prop himself up against the headboard.

"I concerned you yesterday," Mycroft commented, reaching for the cup of tea on his bedside table. "I apologise."

"Concerned is one word for it, yeah," Greg agreed. "What's going on, Mycroft?"

The politician did not reply right away. He turned his face away from Greg, his gaze settling somewhere in the middle distance, towards the end of their bed. He lifted his tea to his lips, but instead of sipping from it he simply inhaled the steam which rose from the liquid.

"I run a highly advanced piece on face recognition software on the CCTV which is passed through my office. It has always allowed me to keep an eye on those who I have need to." Mycroft looked pained as he spoke, and Greg placed his own mug of tea aside, moving closer to the other man and leaning against his side. He did not want to interrupt and have Mycroft refuse him an explanation, but he looked like he needed the reassurance. "People of interest, who I believe may cause problems, are of course its main use. But it is also useful for personal matters. I have used it to keep an eye on the whereabouts of Doctor Watson, yourself and Sherlock."

It would have been easy to miss the slight hesitation, the hitch in breath, before the admittance. But small though they were, Mycroft's tells were no mystery to Greg. He reached out, catching Mycroft's hand in his own and squeezing gently. He should probably be annoyed, he considered, that Mycroft had been keeping an eye on him in such a manner, but it did not worry him. The Holmes' had always had strange ways of showing that they cared.

"Yesterday, the programme picked up an image of Sherlock. A grainy piece of footage, from the outskirts of London." Mycroft's hand tightened around Greg's. "Naturally, I was dubious. I called up the piece of footage. It is only a few seconds long, and unclear, but it was Sherlock." Mycroft turned, and Greg found himself quite suddenly caught in the full force of the other man's scrutiny. "You do not believe me."

"Believe me, love, I want him to be alive as much as anyone. But he died, we went to his funeral, we buried him. I know what it's like to see someone everywhere you go, to want to see them. I do," he repeated as Mycroft pulled his hand away, placing his near empty mug aside.

"I could not bring myself to remove him from the system," Mycroft admitted quietly. "But I am not seeing things, Gregory. This was not the result of grief, or guilt. It was him. His grave confirmed it."

Mycroft's shoulders and back were a strong line of tension, and Greg wanted to reach out. He wanted to wrap Mycroft up away from the world, force him to let himself mourn, to start moving past this. Greg was intimately aware of the stages of grief, and denial was not a healthy one for Mycroft to get stuck in. Still, he seemed convinced.

"What did you find at his grave?"

"Flowers. Lucerne, to be precise. They are flowers used to celebrate life, hardly appropriate grave flowers."

"Couldn't they have been left by someone who didn't know what they meant?" Greg asked softly. Mycroft shook his head.

"They are not traditional grave flowers, no where would sell them as such. Sherlock and I grew up in a society where floriography is well known. He probably used the knowledge on the occasional case, so he would not have deleted it. It's a message, for me. They were mixed with white Chrysanthemum, which are used to portray truth."

It sounded tenuous, at best, to Greg. Though he could not deny that he wanted to believe it as much as Mycroft clearly did. The lingering guilt had barely lessened over the course of four months. Greg could still not begin to forgive himself for the brief amount of time that he had spent doubting the consulting detective, or for the fact that he had not been able to help.

He knew that Mycroft suffered with the same guilt, the feeling of failure. They had been Sherlock's protectors, and they had not been able to save him. With a sigh, Greg wrapped his arms around the other man's chest, pulling him back into an embrace. Mycroft moved willingly, resting his head on Greg's shoulder and closing his eyes.

"You still do not believe me," Mycroft whispered into the quiet room. Greg turned his head, nosing his way into Mycroft's hair before replying, equally quietly.

"I want to," he admitted. "You have no idea how badly I want to believe you. And if anyone could do it, it would be Sherlock. But we buried him, and John watched him fall."

Mycroft shifted, rolling to straddle Greg's lap and pressing his face into the police man's shoulder. Greg threaded one hand into his hair, running the other soothingly up and down his back, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. There were no tears, and he did not expect any, but he could practically hear Mycroft's brain working.

"The programme is only 98% efficient," Mycroft muttered into Greg's shoulder. Greg nodded, running his nails gently over Mycroft's scalp and smiling as the other man practically melted against him. "The movement was not quite my brother's. Similar, but there was something not quite right." He shifted slightly, his lips brushing Greg's shoulder. "Anyone could have left the flowers. Floriography is not commonly adhered to."

"I'm sorry, love," Greg muttered, feeling the disappointment keenly, despite having never invested in the idea himself. Mycroft was not used to having to rethink his ideas, to admitting that he was wrong, and Greg knew that he was finding it difficult.

"He's gone, isn't he?" Greg tightened his grip, resting his chin on Mycroft's shoulder. He kept holding until, for the first time since the evening of the day it had happened, Mycroft started to cry.

Greg held him through the great, gasping sobs. He held him through the silent, shaking tears, and he continued to hold Mycroft until he fell asleep, exhausted.


	4. Chapter 4

_Two years later_

It was a slow day, and for Greg it was maddening. Mycroft had a rare day off, but between them they had not managed to wrangle one for Greg, too. Time was passing far too slowly as Greg filled out paperwork, and he wanted nothing more than to be at home, sharing the day with his partner.

His mobile rang in his pocket, and he reached for it, pushing the stack of paperwork out of the way as he did so. Mycroft's name was flashing on the screen, and he accepted the call with a smile.

"Hey you," he greeted, leaning back in his chair.

"Gregory." Greg sat up straight, concerned by the tone of Mycroft's voice. Mycroft rarely sounded even slightly ruffled, but something had clearly upset him.

"What's wrong, love?" Greg asked.

"There's... I need you to come home," Mycroft replied, his voice trembling ever so slightly on the last word.

"Mycroft, I'm at work," Greg said. But he was already shutting down his computer and reaching for his coat, the phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder.

"Please." The single word broke the last of Greg's resolve, and he stood from his chair. Shrugging his coat on as he exited his office, he waved off Sally's confused look as he strode through the Yard.

"Okay, I'm on my way. I'll be five minutes, yeah?" Mycroft exhaled shakily on the far end of the line before replying.

"Yes. I shall see you shortly." The call rang off, and Greg half ran to his car, glad that they had chosen a home so close to his work.

It took just over the five minutes that Greg had promised for him to pull into the drive. He pushed the front door open, calling Mycroft's name and heading into the kitchen on hearing the other man answer.

Mycroft was leaning against the side in the kitchen, and Greg crossed the room to him immediately, pulling him into a tight embrace. Everything about his posture and expression, to someone who knew him as well as Greg did, was concerning. Mycroft went into his arms willingly, pressing his face into Greg's neck and shoulder. The DI was peripherally aware of the fact that there was another figure in the room, but as it did not seem to be an immediate threat he ignored it in favour of making sure that Mycroft was going to be okay.

"Can you see him?" Mycroft murmured against Greg's shoulder. "Is he really there?"

Greg turned his head, moving away from Mycroft slightly to look at the other person in the room. He inhaled sharply, his grip on Mycroft tightening as his throat worked in an attempt to speak.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "Yeah, yeah I see him."

"Are you quite done with the display of sentiment?" Sherlock asked, perched on one of their kitchen chairs and watching them both with open disgust.

Greg turned away for a moment, shutting his eyes and pressing a brief kiss to Mycroft's head. Maybe when he turned back thinks would be back to normal, and his partner's dead brother would not be sitting in their kitchen.

When he let go of Mycroft and turned back around, however, Sherlock was still there. Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, holding a hand up when Sherlock made a noise as though he were about to speak.

"He's alive," Mycroft muttered behind him. "He can't be alive."

"Oh do stop being dull, Mycroft. At least make an attempt to use your brain," Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock." Greg's tone was equally snappy and he reached one hand back, searching for Mycroft's and squeezing gently once their fingers were linked. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare walk in here after being dead for over two years and start on either of us."

The room lapsed into silence, and Sherlock glared between Greg and Mycroft, tense and radiating defiance. After a few moments his shoulders dropped, along with his head.

"I made it safe to come home," Sherlock muttered, the very picture of a petulant teenager as he spoke. "I couldn't tell anyone, it wasn't safe."

"Does John know?" Greg asked, dropping Mycroft's hand and crossing to settle into a chair beside Sherlock.

"No. Not yet. I need to think. And there is paperwork." Sherlock glanced up, his gaze settling on Mycroft. The brothers stared at each other for a few moments. Sherlock lifted his hand, before making an abortive gesture and shaking his head once. "You were supposed to know," he admitted.

"How? What did I miss?" Mycroft asked, his voice soft in the heavy silence of the kitchen.

"I left the flowers," Sherlock replied. "I thought you would understand. There was no safe way to make it clearer."

"Lucerne and white chrysanthemum," Mycroft muttered. "Life and truth. I believed them to be a badly chosen bouquet, left by someone who did not understand their meaning."

"It made more sense than believing that they were left by your dead brother," Sherlock allowed. "You will help me?"

"Of course," Greg replied before Mycroft could. "Of course we'll help you. There's a spare room upstairs, until you find somewhere else. Mycroft can sort out bringing you back to life legally and if things go badly with John I'll do what I can."

The room fell silent once more, and Mycroft crossed the room, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "What do you need us to do?"

Greg and Mycroft lay quietly in bed that evening. Greg found Mycroft's hand under the duvet and linked their fingers together, squeezing gently. Mycroft responded immediately, rolling up on to his side and pulling Greg's hand up to his lips. Greg smiled up at him, squeezing his hand again.

"I should have listened," Greg muttered. "When you said you thought he was alive." Mycroft shook his head, dropping Greg's hand and shifting so that he could lie above Greg, supporting his weight on his arms and leaning down for a kiss.

"No," Mycroft told him when he pulled back. "You did exactly what I needed you to. You let me mourn and carry on with my life. Believing that he was alive would not have meant that I would have been able to find him. Sherlock has always been good at hiding himself."

Greg reached up, cupping Mycroft's cheek for a moment and running his thumb over the other man's lips. "I love you," he muttered eventually, moving his hand from Mycroft's cheek to the back of his neck, and pulling him down for another kiss.


End file.
